


Keep your head down

by summerisnotover



Category: To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
Genre: F/M, Oneshot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerisnotover/pseuds/summerisnotover
Summary: The story of how Tom Robinson's arm was injured and an insight in his past.Tom is twelve years old in this story so there's no major spoilers, except for well the arm thing. Its not canon, but it could be:) No explicit depiction of violence, but there are threats of it being made.
Relationships: Tom Robinson/Helen Robinson
Kudos: 1





	Keep your head down

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for English class and my teacher seemed to like it sooo ...

**Keep your head down:** Tom nearly choked on the straw he was chewing, as he avoided a puddle with a leap to the left. He coughed once, righted himself and continued on his path to Mr. Dolphus Raymond’s cotton field. The sun was blazing, turning his neck and palms sticky with sweat. But Tom didn’t care much. The cotton season was almost over, and for once he didn’t need to wake up everyday and worry about getting a job in the wintertime. A farmer nearby, Mr. Rubin, had offered him and his older brother the chance to earn some coin to care for his livestock, since Mr. Rubin sons had recently left the house and he couldn’t care for his cattle all alone. He had originally only wanted Tom’s brother to work for him, who was already sixteen, but once he’d seen Toms strong arms, when Tom had accompanied his brother to the farm to get a look at the place yesterday, Mr. Rubin had said:

“Wouldn’ hurt t’ get more than on’ helpin’ hand, I reckon. My daughter’s not much help anyways.”

The said daughter had rolled her eyes and smiled at Tom with slightly crooked, but whitish teeth. She’d looked about thirteen, a year older than Tom, though people often assumed he was older, because he was tall and broad shouldered. On their way off the farm, he and his brother had shaken hands with Mr. Rubin, who had been very kind and exclaimed his gladness about getting some help. Everything seemed perfect, but when Tom had said goodbye to Mr. Rubin’s daughter with a slight bow of his head she had unnoticedly slipped a note in the pocket of his trousers. His heart had been pounding, but he’d hid it with a smile even as she’d winked at him. Back home in his cabin he’d opened the note, it only read one sentence:

“Maybe when you get breaks from work, you can visit me in the farmhouse and we can get to know one another.”

A little drawing of a flower had been scribbled under it. The handwriting was crooked, but Tom could read it just fine. His father had taught him to read a few years back, but right now he wished he hadn’t, so he could pretend to not understand what was written there. Mingling with a white girl was trouble, he knew that as well as anybody else, but refusing her would be disrespectful. Without doing a single thing, Tom had found himself in a dilemma, where every single outcome seemed to have worse and worse consequences.

He was suddenly disrupted from his daydreaming when he heard footsteps come his way. He looked up and saw Mrs. Whistledown, a merchant’s wife from town, a few yards away, going in the direction he was coming from, she was alone, unusual. He didn’t worry about it, without a second’s hesitation, he’d swept the hat off his head, plastered a smile on his face and stepped into a bow:

“Good day, Mrs. Whistledown, you look rightly handsome this mornin’”

He lifted his head, but wished he hadn’t, Mrs. Whistledown had fixed him with a seething glare, she looked him up and down spat on the ground before his feet. Tom froze, his smile wavering, but not faltering.

“Don’t you dare address me, boy. You’re worth less than the dirt beneath my feet.”

She walked past, without sparing him another look, kicking up a cloud of dust with her heeled boots, which settled on his shirt and pants. Tom stared after her, trying to calm his rage. He wanted to run after her and tell her exactly what he thought she was worth. “Respect, Tommy.” his father’s voice, though only in his head, managed to calm him enough to turn on his heels and continue towards the cotton field, trying to forget the incident ever happened. He thought back to the day his father had taught him this lesson.

Tom was five, accompanying his father to the cotton field, he was always with his parents when they worked. But on that particular day, he tried to help for the first time, instead of playing in the nearby forest with his little sister, who was only three. His clumsy little finger struggled to free the cotton bushels from their stems, he kept on glancing over to his father, who with his quick and practiced fingers was many times as fast as Tom. He wandered over, his bare feet getting pinched by pebbles, stood next to his father and studied his work, trying to mimic his movements, but his father’s hands were so fast he could barely see anything but a blur. His father turned around, wiping sweat from his forehead and smiled up brightly at his son.

“Want me to show you?”

Little Tom nodded and sat down next to his father who took his little hand in his own big one. His hands were callused and dark brown, even darker now from the southern sun. He taught Tom how to quickly but effectively wrench the puff out, praising him whenever he got something right and urging him to try again when he didn’t. And see there, soon Tom was getting along much faster, not nearly as fast as his father, but he knew that with practice he would.

“You there, Robinson.”

His father looked up, as one of the overseers was walking over, an angry look on his face. Usually the white men, who made sure that nobody stepped out of line, stayed by themselves in the shade, laughing and drinking, not even paying attention to the workers around them. This one seemed to have noticed something that bothered him though. He was thick bodied with a balding scalp and tiny pig like eyes, which were narrowed in a glare.

“You’re supposed to work, not play with your brat.”

“I was only teaching him sir, see he’s trying to help.” His father said, bowing his head. Tom held out some of the cotton pads he'd already picked for the man to see. But the man only spat some tobacco on the ground.

“Don’t care, do your work. I’ll watch to make sure you do it right.”

Tom was seething. The man had no idea of anything! And didn’t he understand that they were faster if he and his dad worked together? As his father worked the man watched him, insulting him all the while. Insults about his skin, insults about his heritage, insults about his family. Throughout all of it, his father didn’t flinch, didn't fight back, didn't do anything, he only smiled. The man eventually stopped, seeming to grow tired of his provocation not catching foot and left. When the work day was over, and the sun was setting, they walked back home, Tom next to his father, somewhat behind the others. They walked in silence for a mile or so, then eventually Tom asked:

“Why didn’t you say anything, Da’? When that man was sayin’ all that mean stuff.”

His father looked down at him sternly. “Because anything I can do to them, they can do to me ten times worse. The only way to fight back, is by not getting fazed by it.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Be respectful, be polite, no matter what they throw at you and they’ll get tired of it. When respect is the answer to cruelty, it takes them aback and they’ll stop eventually. You just keep your head down and your hands working. Respect, Tommy.”

His father had died of smallpox a year later, respect might have protected him from the violence of people, but not from the violence of nature. Tom arrived at Mr. Raymond’s field, he said his name to one of the overseers, who checked him of on the list and waved him off to the field. Tom settled down in the dirt, beginning his work, fingers as quick as his father’s had once been.

Suddenly he heard a noise, it sounded like a whimper, coming from behind him, where the machinery was. Tom turned around. Two overseers were advancing on one of the working girls. One had grabbed her wrist, tugging on her sleeve which, slid down to reveal a bare shoulder. The other one was laughing. Tom winced, he knew the girl, it was Helen, who’d started to work on Mr. Raymond’s fields only a week earlier, she was two years older them him, but slight of frame and delicate.

“Don’t run away, little princess. We’ll take good care of you.”

He smiled nastily with rotten teeth and grabbed Helen around the waist. She yelped and whispered something, Tom couldn’t hear. The men only laughed and tried pulling her towards the overseer hut, but she was struggling. She kicked on of the men in the stomach, he growled and grabbed her tighter.

“Hey!” Tom was up, before he could stop himself. Keep your head down. Keep your head down. His fathers voice was urging him, trying to hold him back. But there was a stronger voice: Help her! It said. Tom walked towards the men, towards the machinery.

“Let her go!” his voice was stronger than he thought it’d be

“And why should we do that.” Said the man who had Helen around the waist. “She’s enjoying this, can’t you tell? More attention than she deserves.”

Tom continued walking, he was nearly there. Then what would he do? Attack? Argue with them? He didn’t know. One man let Helen go and pulled something from his pocket, a knife. The other one laughed but stopped dragging Helen.

“You stop right there, boy, no step closer. Or I’ll introduce my knife to your gut.”

Tom didn't stop, he kept on walking. now the man seemed scared, despite his threats he didn't seem to actually want to use the knife, nor seem able to.

“Let. Her. Go.” Tom said.

“We should maybe stop.” The man with the knife said. “See, Joe, people have started to notice.”

He was right. All around workers had looked up, startled by the noise.

“Alright.” The other man let Helen go who fell to the ground. “But this boy is gonna catch my hands.”

Without a warning he jumped towards Tom, perhaps trying to punch him, but the man had lost his balance, he tumbled against Tom, with a force that knocked them both back, towards the machines. Tom lost his footing and he fell toward a cotton gin, which was rattling with use. Helen called his name in fear, but it was already too late. He didn’t scream as his arm was sucked into the machine


End file.
